by L. G. McCary
“If he ever needs ideas, I’m sure David would love to help,” I say. I immediately regret saying it. David doesn’t get along with Greg sometimes. Hopefully, Greg won’t need help.
“So I was going to tell you...” Tori trails off. “I mean, I was wondering. Goodness, I can’t talk today!” She brushes an errant hair behind her ear and shrugs. “I don’t know...”
“Spit it out, Vix!” I say, mimicking the joking tone I’ve heard from Greg so many times. Tori jumps as if I’d touched her with a static shock. She shakes her head and pats my hand hard.
“No, it’s Tori. I’m always Tori.” She wipes her mouth on a napkin.
I frown. “But doesn’t Greg—”
“I’m always Tori.” She’s hiding behind her drink, fiddling with her straw and trying to avoid my eyes. “He knows I don’t like Vix. “ She grimaces and takes another bite of pasta.
I chew my sandwich and try to think of a way to change the subject.
“I thought it was like David calling me Charlie,” I say. “I’m sorry, Tori.”
“No, it’s his little joke from our honeymoon.” She picks up her iced tea and stirs it with a straw. “But it’s not funny. I wish he would forget about it.”
“I’ll never call you that again, promise,” I say over my sandwich.
“I’m not mad at you, girl,” she says and shrugs. “I got sick the weekend of our wedding. The worst cold I’ve ever had! I ended up with bronchitis for like a month after we got back. Antibiotics and an inhaler. I look so bad in our wedding photos.”
“You looked lovely,” I protest.
“You can see my red nose in every picture. I had to carry tissues in my bouquet. My nose dripped during the prayer! It just got worse on our honeymoon. I was coughing like crazy, stuck on this cruise ship.”
“You poor thing!”
“I got it in my head that I would feel so much better if I could get some Vicks Vaporub.”
“Oh, that Vicks.” Her face makes my stomach curdle. She’s miserable just talking about this. I wish I hadn’t brought it up.
“Greg found me some in town on our second stop. It sort of helped.” She shakes her head and spears a piece of apple with her fork. “I ended up spending the whole trip either in our cabin or on a chair on deck so I could at least see the ocean.”
“That’s so bad! It didn’t help at all?”
“Greg said the whole cabin smelled like menthol. We both hate that smell now.”
I want to laugh, but she’s not laughing, so I just say, “Yuck.”
“The last night of the cruise, I made myself go to the big fancy dinner and coughed through the whole thing. Greg said the table behind us were whispering about something, and the only thing he could make out was ‘Vicks.’” She raises one eyebrow at me, and her forehead is turning red through her makeup. “They could smell me. The whole dining room could smell me.”
She stabs a bit of pasta with her fork. I can’t help it. I reach over and squeeze her hand.
“Oh, Tori.”
“He thought it was hilarious. He made jokes about it for weeks.”
My cheeks burn. “That’s not funny.”
“Yeah, Greg can be...” She chews on the thought for a few moments and seems to decide not to finish it. “Anyway, that’s why he calls me Vicks sometimes.” She inhales more pasta.
“I’m so sorry! When you told me you were sick, I thought it was a mild cold.”
“It’s okay. It was the worst honeymoon ever. For me at least,” she says. Her mouth twists into a smile. “He did some snorkeling on his own and said he had fun.”
“Oh.” The thought is so unfair. “Maybe you can go on another cruise and make up for it sometime.”
“I’d rather go skiing or something,” she says. “We’re supposed to go to Colorado over Christmas and ski.”
I ask her about the new home design business she’s running. It’s still new and fun, and it’s a safer topic. We reluctantly put our dishes in the bin and head out to the car.
“I like being my own boss. I keep my own schedule and hand Stacy a report at the end of the week. She lets me handle everything the way I want.”
The trip back to my house is too short.
“I’m praying Greg has a great first week,” I say as we hug goodbye.
“Oh, please do,” she whispers. “And keep praying. Things are going so well right now. I just want it all to keep going.”
“It will, Tori,” I say as she opens the car door.
“I hope.”
Twenty-Six
“Rylie,” I whisper to the back seat. She’s fast asleep in her booster chair. My sweet eight-year-old has almost outgrown it, but part of me can’t bear to let her out of it. I can’t believe it has been a whole year since the beach trip with my parents. This year’s regional competition was close enough to their house that we didn’t have to pay for an expensive hotel. Mom made sure Rylie ate her weight in watermelon and ice cream all week between competition times, and her leotard collection has doubled. By the time we wrapped up regionals, Rylie and Grandma both declared we should make “Spring Break With Grandma” a tradition.
The garage door closes behind our car, and David appears in the door in a dirty shirt and old frayed jeans. I put a finger to my lips and point to Rylie behind me.
“Still has her medal on,” I whisper.
“Mommy?” Rylie says, her voice thick with sleep.
“We’re home, honey.”
“Daddy, I won!” She hurries out of her booster to show him her medal. “And Ellie won for her solo!”
“Who is Ellie?” David asks.
“She’s in the preteen group,” I explain. “Miss Colleen has the older girls mentor the younger ones. She helped Rylie do her performance makeup.”
I’m grateful Rylie took the blush and mascara lessons from Ellie much better than she did from me.
“Yeah, she does ballet and tap and jazz!” Rylie says. “She’s awesome.”
David whispers something in her ear, and she grins wide.
“Mommy, you need to go inside now,” she commands.
“Oh, I do, do I?”
“Yes. Daddy said so.”
Now I’m suspicious. “Why do I need to go inside?”
“Don’t freak out,” David says. “I have a surprise for you. It’s almost done.” He winks at Rylie.
“Did Daddy tell you what the surprise is?” I ask her.
“Yes, he did.” She giggles and bounces on her heels.
“Come inside, Charlie,” David says, sweeping a giggling Rylie onto his back and galloping past me into the house.
I open the trunk and pull our suitcases into the laundry room. The house smells like sawdust and paint. What on earth has he been doing? We just remodeled Rylie’s room last spring. I leave everything on the floor to follow the sound of whirring fans.
Our house has a door where it didn’t before. Next to the fireplace in the living room where we used to put a bookcase, there is an elegant French door. It leads out into a room where part of our porch used to be. I can’t seem to move forward to look inside, so I stand in the kitchen doorway staring.
“The paint isn’t dry yet. Took longer than I expected,” David appears in the doorway to the front room.
“Where’s Rylie?”
“Getting dressed for bed.” He shifts uncomfortably and gestures a hand toward the room. “It’s your painting studio.”
“My what?”
“Want to see?” He guides me through the living room to the door and stands, watching me.
Track lighting, huge windows, and concrete floor come together before me like one of those weird three-dimensional pictures, and I blink, half expecting it to vanish. Have I stepped into an alternate universe?
“My studio?”
“You said painting helps you,” David says. He rubs the back of his head with his hand and shrugs. “Now you have someplace to paint that isn’t the garage. Somewhere that’s yours.”
“How did you get this done so fast?”
“Larry, Casey, and Jim from work came over. I had the wood ordered ahead of time.”
I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why he has done this. I never said I needed or even wanted a studio.
“It’s not huge, but it should be big enough. I hope.”
“Why?” My heart pounds in my ears. I’m scared to let myself be happy.
“Why what?”
“Why did you do all this?”
He shrugs and waits for me to step inside. The floor is gritty under my shoes. Wide windows fill the top half of the wall, and I can see my shadow on the grass outside.
“I have my space at my office. Rylie has her dance floor. This is yours.”
“I can’t believe you did this.”
“I can pour more concrete for the porch if we need it,” he says. He points to the concrete floor. “It looks weird because I coated it with graffiti repellent. If you drop a brush or something, the paint won’t stick. Easy cleanup.”
“Are you kidding?” I can’t believe what I’m seeing. This space is perfect. I want to jump around like a little girl, but I’m so scared I’ll wake up tomorrow to find I dreamed this. I could never have imagined David would make something like this for me. How do I thank him?
“The lights all move so you can get the right angles,” he says. His hands are shaking, and he shifts from right to left.
“I love you.” I say that sentence all the time, but I know from his eyes that this time he believes me again. My heart almost hurts looking at this room. “It’s amazing. It is absolutely amazing.”
“Sorry that it isn’t quite finished.”
“David, you built a room! A whole, entire room!”
I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. He pulls back a little.
“I stink.”
“I don’t care,” I say, kissing him again.
He kisses me back hard and rubs the back of my neck with his thumb like he used to do when we were first married. I had forgotten how safe his arms can feel. He’s still here, even after I thought I hated him. He smells like paint and sawdust and hard work. I can feel how much he missed me in his touch and his kisses.
“You like it?” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine.
“The first thing I’m going to paint is another Starship Enterprise,” I say, kissing his stubbly cheek.
“Mommy! You have a studio!” Rylie jumps up and down the doorway and cheers.
“Did you know about this?” I ask her, tickling her arms.
“I kept the surprise! I only told Grandma and Grandpa.”
“Your daddy is pretty amazing, isn’t he, sweetie?”
“Are you going to paint something tonight?” Rylie asks.
David laughs. “Mama needs to get to bed, and so do you, young lady.”
“I have to brush my teeth!”
“Go on, then,” I say. She disappears back to the bathroom. “Let me grab my suitcase, and we can go take a shower. I’m a mess, too.”
“I’ll get the lights,” he says, but first, he kisses me one more time, gently pulling me tight against him until I can almost feel his heart beating in his chest.
He turns off the lights and adjusts the fan at the door. I follow him down the hall with my suitcase. We both kiss Rylie goodnight and tuck her in, and I hold his hand as we walk to our bedroom. He turns on the bathroom light and gently brushes my hair back from my face.
“Charlie,” he whispers.
I drop my bag, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him with all the desire I’ve held back for so long.
Twenty-Seven
The sun streams onto my back from the window of the fellowship hall. Bible study gives me a moment of peace and calm, even after my morning began with Rylie freaking out over lost homework, barely making it to school before the tardy bell, and then discovering the lost homework was in the car. Fourth grade has been miserable so far.
“Beckett is giving up his nap,” Morgan whines. “I’m even more tired thinking about it.”
“How old is he now? Four?” Debbie asks, raising one thickly drawn eyebrow. “My Jack had colic and then he stopped napping when he was two, so consider yourself lucky.”
“But I’m used to a nap now,” Morgan says. “I need it!”
“That’s why I love the nursery,” Tori says with a laugh. “I get to snuggle all the babies and then go home and take a nap.” She crunches a carrot while the other ladies work on their own plates.
“Did I tell you about the shaving cream incident?” Renee says.
“I saw the pictures,” Grace says over a bite of quiche. I wish she would sit with us more often, but she has to make the rounds of the other tables.
“Casey’s mom will never let me hear the end of it,” Renee groans. “Ten minutes before we were supposed to leave for the airport, and I had this pile of shaving cream on my living room floor. I had to scoop it up with a towel and dump the towel in the washer.”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Tori laughs. “I don’t know how you do it!”
“Motherhood is work,” Debbie says in an unmistakably disgusted tone, her eyes sending daggers toward Tori.
The table grows silent. I hate that I never know when the snippy side of Debbie will come out. She’s switched back and forth between groups at Bible study, but she always seems to come back to Renee, Tori, Morgan, and me even though she’s Grace’s age.
“It doesn’t matter how long you wait to become a mother,” Debbie says. “It’s always going to be work.”
Tori’s eyes drop to her empty plate, and she coughs. Renee rolls her eyes and twists her mouth over words that I’m sure will come out later to someone who doesn’t need to hear them. Morgan buries her head in her phone. But I’m transfixed by Grace. She had been laughing along with the rest of us, but now she is staring Debbie down, arms folded over her chest. She shakes her head and leans back in her chair. I can almost see the wheels turning in Grace’s head.
“Life is work,” Grace says. “No matter what, it’s going to be hard work. And we all have different callings, Debbie.”
“Why do girls get so picky about having everything ready before they have babies?” Debbie says. “It’s silly.”
Tori stands with a timid smile and picks up her plate.
“I’m going to get more quiche,” she says. “Anyone need anything?”
She flees the table without waiting for an answer. Renee watches her go and pantomimes whistling. Morgan elbows her and frowns.
“Being ready doesn’t always mean you bring home a baby,” Grace says. The sentence is deliberate and pointed, and her hands are folded primly behind her plate.
“These young girls worry too much,” Debbie says, her tone careless. I cover my mouth with my fist. I can’t believe she is still talking. She’s clearly not paying attention to the rest of us.
“Deb,” Grace says, her voice a warning that Debbie ignores.
“Waiting for the perfect time,” she says between sips of coffee. “There isn’t one.”
“You clearly don’t remember how we were at their age, Deb.”
This is the closest thing to anger I’ve ever seen in Grace, and it feels like the Earth is off its axis. Renee and Morgan’s eyes are wide.
“Everything has to be set up and ready,” Debbie says. She’s still not listening to Grace at all. “Paul and I were poor as dirt when we had Jack. He was still in med school.”
“I remember,” Grace says. “I worked the nursery back then. That was right before Kelly was born.”
Debbie’s face turns scarlet. She sets her coffee cup down and looks away.
Grace takes a deep breath and answers our unasked question. “Kelly was my daughter. She was stillborn.”
My tongue is glued to my teeth, and Renee sips her coffee without looking up.
“Her birthday is next week, actually.” Grace’s voice trembles slightly.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. What else is there to say?
The air has been sucked away from the room. Debbie stares at her coffee. Tori returns, carrying more food, and she frowns at our table, sensing the tension.
“I was just saying Kelly’s birthday is next week,” Grace says.
Tori nods and hugs her without a word. Did she know about this? I didn’t know this about Grace. Had she mentioned it in a testimony? Every conversation we’ve had replays in my head as I wonder if I’ve ever said something insensitive.
Grace looks me in the eye and shakes her head, as if answering the worries in my head. “I don’t talk about her very often. She would be turning twenty-seven.”
Renee squirms, and I get the feeling she’d hide under the table if she could. Debbie excuses herself from the table to go to the bathroom. Good. I hope she feels terrible.
“Nothing can prepare you for that,” Grace says. “It’s a spiritual battle, and it is exhausting. Sometimes we older gals have selective amnesia. We remember all the times we won and forget how many times we lost.”
“I feel like I’m fighting demons with Missile and Gabby every day,” Renee says, laughter dripping with sarcasm. It’s her defense mechanism, but it still annoys me.
“You are,” Grace says with unsettling seriousness.
“Oh, I don’t know about all that,” Renee says.
“Spiritual warfare is real,” Grace says. “Believe me, I had to fight hard when Tony was little. That boy had a head harder than granite. And with Kelly, I had to fight for my own faith. Those days after she died were some of the darkest of my life.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“He brought me through,” Grace says, patting my hand. “I just don’t believe in pretending it was easy. It wasn’t. It was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. I felt like demons were circling me every morning.”
“I don’t like thinking about that,” Renee says with a shudder, picking up her phone.
“So don’t think. Pray. That’s how you fight.” Grace sets both hands on her Bible and looks me straight in the eyes in a way that makes me feel unsettled.
“It’s so weird to talk about,” Renee says. She looks like she wants to run away.
